Unknown

He has a contorted, twisted face, a nose directly above his tongueless mouth, and a pair of blank, ominous eyes.

His skin is pale, his hair is black and to his knees.

His arms and legs are limply hanging from his body.

It makes me sick that I can't do anything about that small, helpless being.

It's disgusting, and I can bear no longer to stare at it.

With a feeling of regret, I turn away from the mirror and head over to my den. A machete is hung upon a nail on the wall. I take the long blade into my hand, and head back to the bathroom.

I have stared into this face for a long time. This cruel, soulless body that has done nothing but hurt others. I cannot stop this body any longer. I can no longer try to withstand the life that, long ago, burned from its heart.

Staring into the mirror once again to reveal that retched body, a blood-tingling screech is let out as I thrust the blade through the mirror.

The figure in the mirror bleeds and thrusts its body against the mirror, trying to escape. But I would not dare do that.

The figure in the mirror falls out of view, blood now covering the inside of the mirror.

That's what it deserves.

It can hurt me through its world.

I can hurt it through the mirror it does not see; it can merely project my actions.

It had rejected my movements and had cut his hand off with a knife while I was doing the dishes, the water in the sink staring at me intently.

The police had believed I was depressed for cutting my own hand off, or that I was insane. But it was that retched reflection.

That's what it deserves for stalking me every night from my television on the other side of the room that is now covered up with a cloth.